


Momento Mori

by ayuemui



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Heartache, M/M, Mercenaries, Villains, Violence, does wendy is gay, kenny is a fucking moron but only sometimes, stan and craig both make assumptions, tweek and kyle are. very difficult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuemui/pseuds/ayuemui
Summary: Tweek Tweak woke up on October 4th, 2016 and found that he was able manipulate the weather with a flick of his wrist. Craig Tucker is coerced into one of the most dangerous jobs he's ever taken. Kyle Broflovski and Stan Marsh feel alone in a world of crime, where the lines of black and white are drawn by crooked hands. Kenny McCormick believes he may be on the edge of a personal breakthrough, and the teenagers of South Park are now involved in one of the most dangerous schemes to date.





	1. prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> anyone else out here enjoy a slow burn enemies to lovers fic with secondhand embarrassment? because uh hell yeah
> 
> hey! i wanted to explore some AUs that are pretty clichè but at the same time try to interpret the characters how i see them. i want to explore my personal writing style so this is the first fic i'm writing after a few years, and i wanted to try it out on a new pairing for something i recently started getting into. 
> 
> there were some things i noticed while watching the show and playing the games that really stood out to me. there's no specific right way to ever write a character while a lot of their reactions to different situations will remain unknown, but the best we can do is guess. we know a lot of things, though, so i look forward to writing it all in these notes
> 
> in this AU, the episodes involving the Coon and Friends franchise and anything surrounding the superhero games in South Park do not exist. cartman probably said it was too fucking lame and no one else really felt like doing it anyway. they dont really want to listen to him, but he'd probably throw a big ole fit if they did it anyway.
> 
> im starting this for the november challenge but i'll definitely be writing a lot. i have a lot planned for this and i intend on finishing all of it. it's a promise for myself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey, guys. i think you may have noticed that i added a prologue here as of nov 19, 2017. this is just for the sake of introducing a better hook as well as stan and kyle into the plot much earlier than before. it changes nothing in the plot, and it is entirely up to you whether you want to read it or not. happy times, fellas.

It is early fall in South Park but the nights are still warm- and the pitter patter of the rain on the town is accompanied by claps of thunder in the distance. Rain pours over the town in droves. The air is chilly but not biting. The quiet sincerity of South Park in the dead of night does not make up for the amalgation of chaos, disaster, and destruction it often represents, however.

A scream echoes in the night, piercing the quiet air. A figure cloaked in shadow jumps from rooftop to rooftop in the heart of the town, making their way towards the surrounding neighborhood to the west. Two others give chase from the air, a lanky and smaller boy gripping a larger, only slightly more muscular one by the underarms. 

The shadowy figure jumps from the top of an apartment complex to another, but nearly misses the landing. They stumble, and the lanky boy in the air drops his partner to the ground. “It’s all on you, Toolshed!”

The shadowy figure stops and turns to meet his attacker.

‘Toolshed’ hits the ground with a thud, unscathed despite falling from almost a two-stories' worth of air. His partner surveys from above, flying around the two like a vulture. Toolshed emits a soft, yellow aura that comes off of his body in waves. He takes a crowbar from his belt, and locks eyes with the enemy.

“You’re not going anywhere this time,” Toolshed growls, beating the crowbar against his own fist angrily, “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

The murderer does not reply, but he instead lunges forward. Toolshed is taken aback by his speed in close-range but he isn’t unprepared. He raises the crowbar and finds that it meets the murder's blade- a katana. The crowbar is dented, but it begins to glow as they exchange blow after blow. 

The two clash- swapping hits and the piercing echo of metal on metal. Thunder roars from above as rain mercilessly beats upon the fighters. Neither is able to make much gain over the other, and their speed increases to a blur of black and yellow attacks. Metal on metal is all Toolshed knows, luckily, and he presses forward. His aura grows brighter, and he pulls his arm back to slam the crowbar forcefully into the murderer's parry. The glow of the crowbar flashes suddenly, and a wave of shock passes from the crowbar to the murderer, who is knocked to the ground.

Toolshed is glowing brightly now, and he points his crowbar threateningly to the assailant, who is now lying back-down on the ground. He can see more clearly now that the murderer is dressed in all dark blue, a skintight suit that ends at his neck. The murderer sports a black mask around his mouth and eyes, leaving a nest of dark hair exposed on his head. Toolshed doesn't attack and hesitates, only for a moment.

Hesitation, however does not pay the bills. The murderer took the opportunity to lunge forward and grab Toolshed by the ankles, dragging him to the ground with inhuman strength. Toolshed hits the concrete of the rooftop- hard. He hears Human Kite shout from above, and Toolshed looks up dizzily to see the murderer _jump off of the fucking roof_.

“No! What the fuck!” Human Kite yells from above, and Toolshed scrambles to his knees to crawl to the edge of the building. The murderer hit the ground below- miraculously unscathed, so he must have used his powers- and began to run. Toolshed watches dazedly as Human Kite speeds off after him.

Toolshed pulls up his googles slightly to rub at his sore eyes. He sits on the rooftop- he was not going to try to make that jump, he was too lightheaded to power up right now- and waits. The rain begins to clear up, thankfully, and it sprinkles gently from up above. Toolshed is soaked to the skin, cold gripping him from within as the adrenaline wore off. He waits with baited breath. After what feels like an eternity and a few minutes, Toolshed spots Human Kite returning from the sky. Toolshed stands and waves to him. Human Kite lands beside him clumsily, breathing hard.

“Nothing,” Human Kite says, quietly, “I lost him. He just… vanished. I thought I saw him turn the fucking corner, and then-“

“It’s alright,” Toolshed says, “you don’t have to defend yourself. We… we’ll get him eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t soon enough, St-… Toolshed!” Human Kite looks aggravated, his voice growing louder. “We need to get him soon! People are in _danger,_ Toolshed. He isn’t just going to wait around and let us catch him. I don’t know how he vanished like that. It’s impossible. He must be able to cloak himself, or…”

Human Kite trailed off, and looked at the horizon off in the distance. He pulled down his mask, and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. Light was just beginning to touch the sky, spreading its arms from the very center of the horizon in the distance. Toolshed and Human Kite stood together, watching the sky as the rain faded away. 

“It’s okay. Well, it’s not okay,” Toolshed begins kindly before correcting himself, “we are doing the best we can. _You’re_ doing the best we can. You’re the one who came up with the idea, and I hesitated. It’s not your fault. We would’ve caught him if I hadn’t.”

“Thank you,” Human Kite whispers, and he turns to look at Toolshed, speaking more confidently now, “I’m just worried that… Stan, I’m just worried that he’s…”

Human Kite stops, his voice trailing off again. Toolshed aches. He watches his best friend move to sit on the edge of the rooftop as the sun begins to slink into the sky. Toolshed steps forward to sit beside Human Kite, and they watch it rise together. “I know, Kyle. I know. I know we can do this, and I know that we can do it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought it would be funny if stan used a crowbar for combat like in the popular game series uhhh half life
> 
> follow/message me on tumblr at https://ayuemui.tumblr.com , or follow me on twitter at @ayuemui !! let me know what you think so far in the comments. i welcome kudos, comments, questions, concerns, and speculation of all kinds! c:


	2. this is the way it always starts.

“-another body was found last night behind the convenience store off of Central Avenue. The victim has been identified only as Quinn, and no further information has been released at this time. Police claim they are on one of several leads but there are no suspects as of right now-“

Tweek fidgets. The reporter’s voice slowly fades into the background as he jumps off of his bed. There are more important things to think about right now, and one of them concerns his math homework that will be due tomorrow. There are a lot of things that need to be done by tomorrow, and one of them concerns Craig Tucker. Craig and Tweek are best friends, and Craig recently went on a trip to Maine for the school’s fall break. His flight should have returned a few hours ago, but Tweek hasn’t gotten any texts from the dark-haired junior.

“Tweek, honey?” Tweek heard his mother calling him from the stairs, and it jolts him from his stiff position near the desk. “Would you like some more coffee? It’s almost time for bed- have you finished your homework?”

Tweek closes his eyes and calms himself before replying. “No, I don’t want anything right now.. I’ll g-get the work done soon.”

Furrowing his brow, Tweek turns to his desk. He scrunches up his nose at the mess there. There are a few collectible figurines from Star Wars sprawled out over his homework (which had a few coffee stains here and there). Lately he’d been messier and more on edge. It was starting to affect his personal life and even his father’s lawnmower startles him at this point. Tweek moves to sit down and puts his head in his hands.

Four months. Four months, and the serial killer was still at large. The police didn’t want to _say_ it was a serial killer, but they weren’t fooling anyone. Nobody could find a link between the deaths so far, and it wasn’t some sort of lame justice streak. If you asked people at school, it didn’t seem like a big problem. There were always some deaths here and there, and that’s just how life worked. They were so wrapped up in themselves that they didn’t know what it was like to die, or to watch someone get killed, or to be fighting crime on the streets themselves. At night. Tweek, on the other hand, was like that up until a few weeks ago.

“Ngh,” Tweek moans, rubbing his eyes tiredly with his hands, “stupid.”

Whatever. He can hear Clyde’s voice in his ears, telling him to stop fooling around. Cartman makes jokes out of it easily enough to lighten the mood, but it would be typical of him to call people fags for being afraid. And he would call those who were killed Jews for being stupid enough to get themselves killed in the first place, as if he knew absolutely _anything_ about being strategic in precarious situations where you could just make one wrong move and everything would be-

Tweek slumps onto his desk, shifting in his seat. This wasn’t solving anything, and it was just making him more frustrated to think about the insensitive reaction most of his friends had. Call him stupid for being empathetic, or even call him crazy for having to deal with the paranoia. But it was hanging like a fog over his mind, and that was frustrating in itself. He could understand, though, because it was just logical to _not_ think about dying-

Logical.

Tweek glances at the iPhone 5 on his desk, picking it up and checking his messages. He’s texted Craig twice in the last hour, and has texted Wendy once. Craig hasn’t responded to anything since last Friday (though Criaig would probably reassure him afterwards that he was just taking a giant shit or something), and it was about his parents arguing in the car on the way home from Maine. Tweek has only texted Wendy to ask whether or not she was willing to work with him on the Chemistry group project. Amongst other things, and those things concerned…

Tweek reluctantly opened the “W33D FR34KS” group chat.

KYLE: As I was saying, I wanted to ask if anyone is willing to come over and kick ass with me on Mario Party.  
TOKEN: I’d really like to, but you haven’t even attempted to work on the English project due this Friday.  
STAN: give it a rest, the assignment’s due on friday and todays only sunday  
CLYDE: I’m coming  
KENNY: same.  
KYLE: Don’t worry about it, Token. I’ll have it done.  
KYLE: Also, bring a different game If you want to as well. But you all already know how my dad feels about Metroid.  
TWEEK: can i bring mario kart  
KYLE: Yep.  
KENNY: only if you want someone to kick your ass.

The game plan is set. Tweek can’t help but feel a little annoyed that everyone is acting so lax in a dire situation, but he couldn’t _blame_ them for that. Not only do they have no idea as to what Tweek was really doing in his free time before bed, but they were going to forget about impersonal things like that to begin with. It’s scary, but it doesn’t concern then.

He quickly texts Wendy.

TWEEK: hey is anyone around you right now wwendy?  
WENDY: No, is something wrong? :(  
TWEEK: did you see the news

A few minutes pass without a response, and so Tweek quickly begins his Honors Chemistry homework. Chemistry was fne, but Statistics was going to be the death of him. The numbers never quite stand still on the page, and it is rather disorienting. After thirty minutes of frustration, his pencil lead breaking multiple times, and a scuffle with his anxiety, his phone rings. Tweek picks it up almost immediately, pausing. Wendy says nothing to greet him (as she is probably deep in thought), so he begins.

“Great timing,” he greets her, coughing nervously, “I just finished my homework. Are you there?”

She’s quiet for a long time before asking, “Is anyone still around?”

“No, my parents went to sleep. What’s up?”

“They say whoever is doing this is running rampant in South Park, right now.”

Tweek froze up. He pauses, then clears his throat. “Yes.”

“Tweek, I’m being dead serious right now. You need to lay low.”

“What would I do anyway?” Tweek’s eyes shut for a moment and he takes a deep breath to relax before continuing, but his voice still cracks. “There’s too much pressure. What would I even do?”

“Play around again with fire and see what happens?” Wendy presses. Tweek says nothing, so she continues. “Look, I don’t know what dragged you into the whole ‘crime-fighting vigilante’ picture besides the ‘freak drug’ you keep going on about, but I don’t want to go to school and find out you died from _a certain someone_ calling you a faggy Jew!”

“I’m not about to go out into the street and punch someone!” Tweek rubbed his eyes. “I-I can handle myself. Plus, no one knows but you, I promise.”

“Not even _Craig_?” The way she drew his name out like a bingo number really pushed Tweek’s buttons. He clawed at his hair in frustration, brows furrowed and face growing hot. Does she have to assume anything about Craig? Sure, Craig is his best friend (at least, Tweek thinks so), but that doesn’t _mean_ that he’s going to- 

“Shut up, shut up shut up shut up!” He groans. “No, I’m not that stupid! Leave him out of it! You’re the only one who knows! Do you think it’s easy to keep it from everyone else? I’m trying to be _careful_!”

“You can’t tell _anyone_. Not even him. How fast will the word get out that there’s a wild-eyed weather-formation crimefighter in South Park? You have really bad impulse control, no offense.”

Tweek lowers the phone from his ear and ran to the window. He peeks out into the darkness, assuring himself that nobody is there. He twitches nervously and then returned to the call. “How do you know he’s in South Park?”

“I don’t know if he _is_ a he,” Wendy huffs, “and I have my own sources. Police reports, et cetera. I only called you to warn you. Tweek, don't do anything without me. We’re the only ones who know.”

“Can’t we just tell Bebe? Or Craig?” Tweek looks back at his desk. He was going to have to go to sleep soon to be well-rested for school, and so he tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder. Then he moves to pack his backpack. “I don’t see the big deal in that.”

Wendy groans. “Are you serious? You think I should _tell Bebe_? Tweek? Really? What if she went over my head and said something? What if she were interrogated? We’re the real deal, Tweek. You can’t chase stereotypes like that.”

“We’re _not_ superheroes.” Tweek’s voice rises steadily in pitch as he continues. “That’s dumb gay comic book stuff. We just happened to do some unfortunate stuff and take some really suspicious freak drug before we got powered up. Like with Sailor Moon only we didn’t have to make a bargain or anything. Not really like Sailor Moon, I guess, but I-“

“For all you know, that was just a coincidence and there’s something else,” Wendy sounds frustrated, and she sighs, “any time I try to look it up, I get a big red X over all of the possible sources. Look. I’m going to bed. Don’t do anything tonight. Wait for me to come over tomorrow. We can check the situation then. Okay?”

Tweek was quiet for a long time. He doesn’t want to fight this guy on his own anyway. There is a part of him that thinks that he might want to. Really. But he’s only been able to sling wind and rain for a few weeks, and he hasn’t quite mastered it just yet. Wendy has been doing this for a lot longer. She has control of the situation- or at least that’s what she will always say. Regardless, it was a mistake he can’t afford to repeat. Wendy reiterated that last bit over and over again. 

It’s not that he is afraid. He isn’t paranoid or nervous about this- Tweek isn’t the wimpy shrivel that people were always making him out to be. But Tweek _physically_ wouldn’t be able to handle it, and that frustrates him.

“Okay,” Tweek agrees, “I won’t do anything. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Bye, Tweek.”

“Goodbye, Wendy.”

The line went dead, and by the time Tweek put his phone down he’d distractedly organized his room. This is a good start. Perhaps he needs to talk on the phone more often. He drops his backpack by the closet door and sits on the bed. The top story was of another murder (a serial killer somewhere out there), with the guy’s heart being punctured by a blade (he’s doing it so mercilessly). It was disgusting, terrifying (innocent people were losing their lives), and it makes Tweek’s heart clench. He puts his phone down and closes his eyes for a moment. The serial killer was tearing people apart and it didn’t seem like it was really at the forefront of people’s minds. The murderer needs to be stopped, sooner rather than later. 

Tweek wishes he could get stronger, control his powers, save others. If he could do it, Tweek would already be out on the town, fighting the murderer himself.

He looks out the window again and feels a sick tug in his gut. Tweek flinched sharply at the thought of South Park being in danger, too. That hurts, badly. As much as Tweek despises this hellscape- the people he cares about are here, too.

And in the middle of the night while Tweek slept, his phone rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that the first chapter is incredibly short. i LOVE writing long chapters, but there's no need to drag out 2k more words when the story is hardly off of the ground. so the first two or three will probably be short and smashed together, but full of events to kickstart the story before we REALLY get off the ground.
> 
> you can follow me at @ayuemui on twitter and message me there if you'd like! you can also find me at ayuemui.tumblr.com ! let me know what you think so far in the comments. i welcome kudos, comments, questions, concerns, and speculation of all kinds! c:


	3. with a cruel agreement after coercion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i mentioned before, i look forward to writing here about my experience in the chapter. i should probably let you all know that this story will begin to follow a schedule of being around 4k-10k words per chapter, and the new schedule will be an update every thursday! 
> 
> in the episode, “Le Petit Tourette”, Craig makes a point that he wants to befriend a child named Thomas as he doesn’t actively recognize the Tourette’s… or he does, and still thinks it’s hilarious. He even offers to wash the kid’s laundry. That particular exchange tells me a lot about Craig, and I hope that my writing gets better so I can write him even more accurately! craig isn't really this no-feeling ghost, or even someone with little to say. he's.. something i'm going to have to get better at.
> 
> my knack for writing nightmare sequences is strengthened by the many i've had. foolish nightmares. while you were torturing me in my sleeping hours, i was studying the blade

CRAIG: hey man.  
CRAIG: i just got home, sorry for not texting earlier. some stuff came up, that’s all.  
CRAIG: you know how my parents are. maine was pretty great.  
CRAIG: you’re probably asleep now but just text me when you wake up.  
CRAIG: sweet dreams, buttercup

It’s 10 degrees Fahrenheit and there’s some snow littering the ground in South Park. It is a calm, quiet morning, and a blue 1984 Ford F-150 pickup truck rumbles down the asphalt road of Wayward Boulevard towards South Park High School. Birds are chirping, squirrels are running into the road, and the sunrise starts early over the horizon.

Craig Tucker restlessly taps his fingers against the wheel of his truck as he cruises down the road. He’d gotten little sleep the night before, and his eyes are heavy with exhaustion. Craig’s lips are cracked from the cold and his skin is dry. Driving while tired is pretty reckless, but he could always stop on the way to school and get a coffee from a Conoco.

It is a few more silent minutes of driving before Craig pulls into the Conoco, noting the empty lot and the quiet buzz of the neon OPEN sign as he gets out of the car. This is a routine. Very steady, very drawn out. Wake up. Check messages. Drive to Conoco. Go to school. 

Even if everything else is uncertain in this town (and it always was), Craig thinks as he pours himself a coffee, he would be damned if his morning routine wasn’t perfect. He pays for the coffee (two half-and-halfs plus a Splenda) and leaves. He doesn’t particularly love school. You don’t have to enjoy something to be decent at it. You just have to work hard on it. Craig enjoys things when they are exact. He is awful at science but he loves art and making things. He enjoys math, and is okay at English. A typical student.

Sort of. 

Craig is decent at separating himself from “problems”. It’s not hard. You have to just stop caring about what others think. In fact, the phenomenon even has a name. The spotlight effect. No one cares what you do to embarrass yourself. People don’t think about you as often as you assume they do. Craig, for instance, still wears a blue beanie and some variation of a blue outfit with black jeans to school daily. No one has ever said anything. There’s not a reason to be self-conscious about things like that. 

But there are some problems that couldn’t be fixed by ignoring them. Craig, however, duly notes that he prefers to keep his ignorance at a necessary level _until_ everything goes to shit, and then he’ll worry some more about those problems.

Craig arrives at school, parks, and hoists his bag from the cargo bed. This is another day he expects to pass as unceremoniously as usual. He pulls out his phone at the entrance before he heads to Statistics. There is a loud voice behind him, and he turns to meet them.

“Craig, Craig!” Stan approaches Craig, breathless, and grabs his shoulder. He turns Craig around (with a grip so strong he almost cracks Craig in half) and grins from ear to ear. “How was Maine? Listen, are you coming over later for Mario Party?”

Craig raises an eyebrow. He feels like the answer for ‘how was Maine?’ would always be ‘kind of shitty, actually, but there were lobsters’. “Hey. What?”

“Mario Party,” Stan rolls his eyes, “did you not see our texts? I’m still angry that Kenny beat me so badly last week, and I was hoping we could all meet up after school and head over to my place.”

“Oh, sure,” Craig opens the door for the both of them, and they enter the school, “I’ll consider going. I didn’t see the texts. I slept in really early yesterday, so we’ll have to see.” Liar. And even then, something _always_ comes up. It’s inconvenient.

Stan moves to walk beside him, motioning wildly with his hands. “Hell yeah! I mean, if you can come. That would be great.”

“Sure would. I’d like to watch you all start shit after the CPU wins, though. I gotta get to class.”

Stan rolls his eyes (again), and then he looks at Craig a little more closely. Stan practically ignored his last statement. “Hey, did you watch the news last night?”

“No. Why?”

“The murders. They say someone’s out there killing innocent people. Sometimes innocent and sometimes not.”

Craig’s hands feel very cold all of a sudden, but he forces a shrug. “So? I know this is a horrible thing to say, but people die all the time.”

“Craig, I’m serious.” Stan said sternly. Craig almost flinched at the intensity of his stare. That was very characteristic of Stan. It was like you could flip a switch and his demeanor would change instantly. Craig had to wonder if part of that trait came from their shit childhood, or just being around Kyle. 

It was probably from being around Kyle, Craig was sure of that.

“There have been fifteen deaths in four months, Craig,” Stan went on, slowly, “I just… if anything comes up, let us know, okay? It’s been really weird around here, and no one is saying anything but the air feels really different.”

The hair on the back of Craig’s neck stood up, and he wasn’t able to quite meet Stan’s eyes. He stares at the shape of Stan’s pale nose, slightly crooked from his many injuries as a kid. Sometimes Craig wishes they’d (Stan’s weird group) would get to some stupid scheme and bring them all back to elementary school.

“Okay.”

Stan studies Craig for an uncomfortable moment. Craig quirks an eyebrow. And then Stan stops, and the air clears once again. Stan is acting incredibly weird, and Craig is put off at the switch to lightheartedness. There was still a glint of worry and doubt in Stan’s ocean eyes, and the other teen broke eye contact.

“Evidently the police _think_ they’ve found a lead, but that’s just speculation and rumors,” Stan goes on, watching the people around them in the hallway, “some people say they know where he’s going to strike next, and-“

“Wait, hold on,” Craig interrupts, bewildered but he hides it beneath a furrowed brow, “what do you mean when you say ‘people know where he’s going to strike next’?”

Craig and Stan walk together through the crowded hallways towards Chemistry. The people around them were laughing, moving, being amicable. Craig is grateful. He doesn’t have to meet Stan’s eyes anymore and make the situation awkward, and the area around them cleared any suspicion. It normally would _not_ have been so awkward.

“Kenny said so.”

Craig stopped and stares at Stan in shock, jaw slightly open. Stan looked surprised at Craig’s sudden sparked interest, so the former forced himself to laugh humorlessly and continue walking. “Oh, man, Stan. I thought you were being serious for a moment. Kenny’s probably just being a dick about it. You know how he can be.”

“I guess so. I haven’t seen him since yesterday in band. By the way, how was Maine?”

\---

TWEEK: hhey craig! sso rry dude i woke up late and also im not gonna be at school today   
TWEEK: but.. so maine WAS cool after all??? haha man now you owe me fifty bucks. Not really. You don’t have to pay me that much money.  
TWEEK: maybe a drink at harbucks in the mall would do the trick as long as you don’t tell my parents. I know you wont, but I can never really be sure.  
TWEEK: anyyyway it would have tto be a study session as well. statistics fucking blow   
TWEEK: youre probably in class rn sso ill talkto you later maybe!! 

\---

When Craig finally leaves the paperwork prison of South Park High and marches across the parking lot, he is relieved. Being around his friends is good and fun (band and orchestra in particular were always a hoot) but there are more important things on Craig’s mind.

He won’t be playing Mario Party anytime soon.

He tosses his bag in the cargo bed when he gets to the truck. He’s really, really, really fucked now. The distraction of school and his pals are something Craig is extremely grateful for, because it keeps his mind of off this convoluted plan. There is always something pushing Craig to his limits. Sometimes it feels like life isn’t quite right if there isn’t another problem that’s testing the limits of his patience and general acceptance of spotlighting. 

A few weeks ago he-

“Craig.”

Craig nearly screams as he jumps. He shudders and pivots towards the speaker. There’s another boy there, wearing tight pants and an orange parka that almost seems too small. His familiar face is bruised with exhaustion. The hood happens to be pulled back (for once, Craig duly noted), and Kenny looks quite amused at the few moments it takes for Craig to gather himself again.

“Hey, Kenny,” Craig squeaks, and he takes a deep breath before continuing, “what’s up?”

“You’re such a soft nerd, Craig,” the blond responds, and he shakes his head, “not much. Are you coming with us to play Mario Party?”

“Didn’t we get homework today?”

“Man, fuck homework,” Kenny replies, voice sharp, “I have better things to do. Classwork isn’t hard and it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get done.”

“Okay, okay,” Craig rubs the back of his neck. “I would love to come, but I have bigger fish to fry.”

Kenny looks at him steadily. “Is something wrong?”

There is something very alluring and yet off-putting about Kenny. He is so very _Kenny_ , and that was the only way Craig could ever describe it. Kenny is an asshole sometimes, but he is still familiar, and he seems very separated and intact despite all the shit South Park vomited on them. 

Why could these kinds of people (especially the easygoing, mellow, weird Kenny) flip a switch so easily?

And Craig hesitates because of this weird, sudden fascination with Kenny’s aura.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Craig begins, “what’s the big deal today? First Stan, and now you.”

“’First Stan’ what?” 

“He was being cryptic in the hallway this morning,” Craig replies, “you would have thought he was just Kyle but more... Whatever.”

“Don’t worry about that. I don’t know. Maybe he’s just Stan being Stan.” Kenny shrugs, and then he taps his fingers on the side of Craig’s truck. “People haven’t been showing up to school, maybe that’s what’s worried him.”

“People. Like, Tweek?” Craig asks, and there is a drop in his stomach.

“Relax, you haven’t been gone that long. Tweek’s just feeling sick. Maybe. But people aren’t coming to school because they’re afraid of whatever’s going on out there.”

“What about you?”

Kenny laughs. “Do you really think I have anything to worry about?”

“If you’re asking me if _I’m_ alright, then probably.”

Kenny smiles at that. “Okay, you got me. What-fuckin’-ever. I was just asking. Let me know when you want to play Mario Party again.”

He walks away before Craig can reply. Craig watches him leave, too, and feels a shadow of doubt swirl inside of him. Kenny isn’t really the person who talks because he likes to hear his own voice.

Craig sits in his truck, silently.

There was the night a few months ago where he’d fallen asleep and woken up outside of his house on the ground. Tied up and wearing only a tank top and shorts, his parents were horrified. 

Neither the police nor his parents knew what happened. Someone must have just taken Craig but chickened out before really doing _anything_ to him. Craig knew better, though. He’d spent the first few days afterwards cooped up at home, endlessly googling and reading articles for anything concerning drug usage and its link to certain abilities. Did they even exist? Three colored pills, Celebrer, GH. 325. They were all fake. Cartoons. All 318,000 results (he tired out at around page 34) led to a dead end.

Having the strength of several horses wasn’t healthy. Being able to heal deep cuts in only a few minutes wasn’t healthy. Being able to smash a brick wall to pieces in a single punch wasn’t healthy. Knuckles covered in pale scars and cuts wasn’t _healthy_. 

Craig had a lot of questions. But the answer wouldn’t present itself, even after all of that searching. This was a dangerous town, after all.

\---

Craig sat at the kitchen table, tapping his fingers against the counter. He prods at his food with a fork, disinterested. The very thought of eating makes him feel sick, and he only watches his sister as she gobbles up the macaroni enthusiastically. 

His mother is fixing the sink. She’s crouched underneath the faucet, fiddling with the cap, and she lets out a heavy sigh before wriggling out. “Craig, honey, could you go to the shed out back and bring me a wrench?”

“Sure.” Craig is all too eager to ditch dinner and walks out through the back door. The sky is dark, pitch black, and Craig notes the lack of stars in the sky. The air is quiet, and he turns back to look at the house.

It is no longer there. He is standing in an empty field, with only the grass and the shed in front of him.

Craig’s eyes widen, and he turns back towards the shed. What the fuck? He feels chills climbing up his spine, freezing his body. Slowly, sluggishly, robotically, Craig inches towards the shed and turns the handle. It breaks clean off. Craig barely has time to marvel at his newly adopted strength before a red, sticky and viscous liquid splatters the ground in front of him. From the hole where the handle had been, a thin trail of blood runs down the door.

Craig yells in surprise and finds that he could no longer move. Time feels like it takes ages to pass. Blood begins to rush more quickly from the door, staining the grass and pooling on the ground. It comes so forceful in stream that the door begins to crack, and Craig is able to move once more. He stumbles to the ground, splashing into the blood with a sick squelch, before he staggers to his feet and begins to run.

Craig turns his head back as he runs, noting the door bursting open. Blood flows like a river into the field. Craig screams and keeps running, his breath coming short and joints aching with every step. The blood rises to his knees, and he continues to run sluggishly. There was nothing on the horizon, nothing to run to for safety. But he keeps going. The blood begins to pull him down, grabbing at his pants and tripping him into the rushing stream. Craig chokes and sputters as he sinks beneath the surface.

He thinks, dazedly, that the blood is much deeper than just a foot high. He begins to sink to the bottom of the blood lake, dragged down by an unseen force. Craig tries to yell out when he feels himself choking, retching, gagging into the water as screams enter his ears. Suffocating, Craig struggles and flails in the water, feeling black clouds tug at his vision as an all-too-familiar voice begins to speak and he feels himself knowing, thinking, recognizing, screaming-

Craig screams.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck-“ He shoots up in bed, breathing harsh and roughly. “Fuck. Fuck!”

The dark-haired boy looks around, shaking. He’s laying in bed with afternoon sunlight illuminating the room. Craig finds himself to be covered in a cold sweat. It was just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. It was just a _nightmare_. He groans and sputters, raising a hand to his face.

He’s crying.

“Craig!” He hears a voice calling him from the foot of the stairs. “Son, are you alright?”

It takes Craig a moment to gather himself. “Yeah,” he shouts back, “just dropped something on my toe.”

“Be careful, Craig,” his mother chastises him, and Craig is all-too-grateful for it, “you’re gonna get the neighbors concerned.”

“Okay.” Craig stands up, shakily, and finds himself to be fully dressed. He almost trips over his backpack, and feels a wave of relief lift weight from his shoulders. He must have fallen asleep as soon as he came home, and had a nightmare.

Craig clenches and unclenches his fists, wiping the sweat from his forehead with an arm sleeve. The nightmares were getting worse, and Craig is concerned. He is going to have to go out tonight. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

He needs answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, follow me at @salmonulla on twitter and feel free to message me there too! let me know if you like the story! i welcome all comments, concerns, speculations, and questions in the comments below c:
> 
> i know a lot of you are really excited for this story, and so am i! i'm looking forward to becoming a better writer as we go.
> 
> as others have noticed, i AM using the homestuck (rip) skin for texts. it’s just easier to read and distinguish between characters with the colored text. plus, it looks really nice :0


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